


Life's like a Box of Chocolates

by viiperfang



Series: Adventures of the Freak Fam [4]
Category: Freak Fam - Fandom
Genre: Bullying, Multi, Rating will probably change, Sorry Not Sorry, and i'll edit the tags as I go, and therefore i might not be able to / remember to put in every tag, but! at the beginning of each chapter will be warnings for said chapter, mild violence, shirk curses a whole lot, so thought i'd preface this with: read at your own risk, this is a bunch of drabbles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-08-13 11:16:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20173357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viiperfang/pseuds/viiperfang
Summary: ...the coconut ones are the worst.--A bunch of prompt-fills, shorter one-shots, and drabbles revolving around the Freak Fam and those associated with it.All tags will be at the start of the chapter/story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt:  
Protectively Cradling <strike>a broken arm</strike>.  
(Prompt edited by the sender)
> 
> Characters: Alandria, Shirk, Star, Nova  
Relationships: Alandria & Shirk  
Warnings:  
Bullying  
Mild Violence

He was trying to grow his hair out. It was just long enough to be pulled back into a small ponytail, lovingly done so by Alandria that morning. So sue him for getting into a fight with some of the other boys who thought they could pick on him because he's younger. 

Though maybe he shouldn't have been trying to take on the whole lot of 'em. He spat something vile at them in Spanish and one of the oldest dished out some derogatory shit, causing the others to start to cackle loudly in glee. 

It wasn't everyone in their age group, thank someone. Nova and Star—what stupid names, Shirk couldn't help but think—sat on a pile of boxes, the former looking bored out of her mind and the latter looking almost worried.

One of the boys moved in and sent a sharp jab towards Shirk's throat, so he ducked under it and used his momentum against him, kicking his legs out from under him and sending him tumbling. Another grabbed him by the back of his hoodie and sent him sailing through the air like he weighed nothing. He hit the ground like a bag of bricks and had the wind knocked out of him when he was lifted by the hair and slammed into the wall. 

The grip moved to his face, just under his chin, so he tilted his head enough to be able to sink his teeth into the other boy's hand, who pulled it back with a howl and slugged him in the jaw.

Shirk cracked a smirk and spat blood at the leader of the group's face, and was lifted off the ground by his shirt. "You little-" the rest of his sentence was cut off by Shirk bringing his head back, only to slam it forward into the other's head with  _ crack _ . He was dropped and he kicked out before scrambling away, vision reeling.

The boys shouted and advanced on him, the leader behind them cradling his head, until a sharp " _ No! _ " rang out and caused everyone to pause. Shirk spun his head around to see Alandria stomping forward. He was gobsmacked when she plantwd herself in front of him, hands on her hips and young face scrunched in anger. "Leave him alone!"

"Alandria m! What the f- What are you doing  _ here _ ," he hissed, pulling her towards him by her dress. She turns and cradles his head in her arms, pressing a kiss onto a cut across his forehead. "You know what I told you-"

She shushed him and moved her hands almost too fast for him to keep up as she switched to sign language. "I was bored and came to find you," she told him. "Good thing I did. I'll protect you."

"Aw, wittle baby come to protect her brother," one of the boys jeered, only to balk as both Shirk and Alandria sent him a glare that almost caused the forces of hell to riot. "Whatever, lets get outta here," he muttered, voice shaky. He refused to meet their eyes and turned around to stalk off. 

"I don't want you coming here," Shirk huffed, pulling away from her and standing, only to wheel her away from the alley. "It's too dangerous for you. Aren't you supposed to be in school anyway?"

"School got out an hour ago. You were late so I came looking for you." Alandria smiled at him with a grin full of missing teeth, and he couldn't help his fond sigh. 

"I won't be late tomorrow."

"Promise?"

"Promise."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 2:  
Needing help to drink from a glass with Disaster and Ryan  
With Disaster needing the help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags for this chapter:
> 
> Characters: Disaster Haywood, Ryan Haywood, Gavin Free (Mentioned), Michael Jones (Mentioned)  
Relationships: Disaster Haywood & Ryan Haywood  
Warnings: None!

"What the  _ fuck _ do you mean you let her–" Ryan's voice boomed through the house, reaching Disaster even though her father was at least three rooms away, and through closed doors. Oh, he was angry, that was certain, and was currently chewing out her uncles, Michael and Gavin. She could hear Gavin's voice, muffled and pleading, and Michael's, angry and rising, before another shout cut them off—"You should know better you fucking useless assholes!"—and a door elsewhere in the penthouse slammed.

She was propped up in her bed, right arm in a cast and secured against her chest in a sling, the rest of her body aching, battered and bruised. She… might have taken a spill doing a stunt jump that her uncles half-heartedly warned her against, but, being the rebellious 14-year-old she was, she had ignored their warnings and tried anyway. And she had promptly eaten shit across the ground, breaking her arm in the process.

Her dad was less than pleased when she came back from the ER, Michael and Gavin nervously in tow, and he had seen her arm in the cast. He had yelled at her and called her irresponsible, before helping her to her bed and telling her she was grounded for-til-college. And that's where she now sat, feeling pity brew in her stomach for her uncles. It wasn't their fault she didn't listen! Plus, Ryan was being a hypocrite. She had heard—and seen first hand on occasion—some of the crazy stuff he did, like steal a chopper mid-air after jumping from Jack's plane. She gets hurt once doing some sick stunts on her bike and he's all "how dare you, bleh, I would never!"

Disaster rolled her eyes and grumbles under her breath, mocking her dad with the venom only a teenager could muster, before realizing her mouth was dry. Who knows when the last time she drank anything was, probably before her whole failed-stunt-fiasco… yeah it was when she, Michael, and Gavin had gone to McDonalds for lunch.

Not wanting to face her father's wrath, Disaster just snorted and shifted her legs to a more comfortable position. But it seemed that some deity, or perhaps a demon, heard her wants because Ryan entered the room moments later, a glass of water in his hand. He still looked pissed out of his mind, but must have calmed down somewhat because he placed the glass down and perched on the edge of her bed, hand on her knee.

"How you doing, kiddo?" he asked her, voice soft.

"You shouldn't blame Mikey and Gav," she blurted instead of answering his question. He gave her a puzzled look and she barreled on, trying to get him to understand. "It wasn't their faults. They tried to stop me, but I thought I knew better and that I could do it. They really were against it, trust me. I'm the only one to blame."

Ryan sighed and shook his head. "I don't blame you, honey. They should've known better than to take you over there–"

"I wanted to go! They're not–they didn't–don't be too mad at them, please?" She gave him her perfectly crafted puppy-dog-eyes, complete with the quivering, pouting lip, and she watched him deflate as he gave in.

"I'm not mad at them, okay. I was just scared," he said truthfully, patting her leg. "When I saw you earlier, all I could think was  _ 'What if something worse had happened?' _ I'm not mad at you or them, or anyone else."

"Come on, I'm fine. I'm not the only kid to break their arm riding a dirt bike, dad."

"But you're  _ my _ only kid, you little rascal," he snorted, leaning up to ruffle her hair despite her protests. His hand then kept going and grabbed the glass of water before offering it to her. She raised her eyebrow and gestured to her broken arm, and he rolled his eyes with a scoff before he brought the glass to her lips and tipped it enough that she could drink her fill. When half the glass was downed, he placed it back on the bedside before saying, "I'm not your maid, and you're not a baby anymore, so I'm not going to feed you or help you drink. You have a working hand."

"But it hurts," she whined.

"Should've thought of that before you thought it was a good idea to do something stupid, huh?" he told her, and she closed her mouth and looked away, chastised.

"Am I still grounded for-til-college," she asked him, and he laughed, rubbing his neck.

"Did I really say 'for-til-college'?"

"Yep."

"You're not grounded for-til-college, but you are grounded for a month. And no more outtings with Gavin-and-Michael as a pair for a while without supervision."

"Aw come on!"

"No! You lost that privilege by taking advantage of their stupidity."

"But dad–" she began only to be cut off by Ryan who was trying very hard not to smile.

"No buts, young miss. Now get some rest. When Jack gets wind of this I feel like her conversation with you will end up being worse than mine."

"No! Don't tell Jack!"

"Too late."   


"Daaad!"


	3. The One in Which Shirk has Some Intense Emotions About Someone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A drabble spawned from a conversation with holdyourbreathfornow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags for the chapter:
> 
> Characters: Shirk Raya, Ryan Haywood, Disaster Haywood (Mentioned), Roland Mort (Mentioned)  
Warnings: Shirk curses a lot, uh he's kinda an asshole, mentions of past violence

"So, Disaster is hiding something from me and I know you don't hide your feelings about people so I came to you," Ryan says, tapping his fingers against the table they were seated at in a local cafe. Steam from the twin mugs in front of them curl upwards only to dissipate into the rest of the air. Shirk cocks an eyebrow and gestures for Ryan to continue talking, which he does. "This Roland character, ex LSPD..."

He trails off as Shirk's previously curious face darkens into what Ryan can only call true, unadulterated  _ hate _ , the younger man's hands curling white-knuckled around his coffee mug. Ryan places a hand over his arm and he can feel Shirk force himself to relax under his touch. 

"I fucking hate their fucking  _ guts _ ," he spits out like white-hot venom burning his mouth. His nose crinkles as he bares his teeth, and literally  _ growls _ . "Deserves to be nowhere but in the deepest fucking pits of hell, rotting for eternity."

"I'm guessing they did something worse than simply being a cop," Ryan says, question clear in his statement.  _ What the hell did they  _ do _ ? _

Shirk scoffs and shakes his head, sneering down into the dark depths of his beverage. "Fuck yeah they did. Remember that time Disaster and I were both in the hospital or whatever for a while?"

Ryan stiffens. That's when the secret he had so desperately tried to hide from her crew—at her own request of course—had slipped out because his shock and fear had overwhelmed him and his first thought had been _she's_ _dead_. He never learned the full story but Ryan has an inkling he's going to today. "Yeah, I remember. She had been shot in the stomach," he grimaces, and Shirk mirrors his expression, "and from what I heard you were pretty fucked up yourself."

"Heh," Shirk laughs, but its devoid of any humor and startling cold. In all Ryan's years of knowing him, first as the Dragon, then as a member of Disaster's crew, and now as Disaster's boyfriend and, dare he say it, someone he's grown fond of, he has  _ never _ heard Shirk's voice to cold and  _ hateful _ . "Yeah, well, that fucking  _ pendejo _ had a hand in that," he spits, only barely mindful that they're in public. "They're the one who fucking shot her in her goddamn stomach and almost  _ killed- _ " Shirk chokes on the words and swallows before continuing, "and almost, yeah. And when I went to get revenge against the cops and find out the bastard who hurt her I got pretty banged up myself."

"Are you  _ sure _ it was Roland?" Ryan asks, wary to believe that someone would shoot their own  _ sister _ .

"The fucking cocksucker said it to my own face that they were her sibling, and I don't forget faces."

"Hmm," Ryan hums. "Disaster seems to trust them."

"Yeah, well, she's just ecstatic to have a sibling. Totally fuckin' forgave their ass. I haven't, though. It's a shame I can't string them up like Christmas lights for what they did."

"It  _ is _ a shame, because I'd be  _ right _ there with you. They hurt my daughter, and I don't know if I could forgive them either. But, I'll give them the benefit of the doubt and a second chance, and I know Disaster would like you to do the same," Ryan offers. Shirk gives him a Look and he laughs, putting his hands up. "Look, don't get me wrong, I don't trust them as far as I could throw them, but Disaster is a grown woman, and can make her own decisions, and she has  _ you _ to protect her. Plus, I can do the 'scary dad' spiel and threaten them all the time."

Shirk huffs, but deflates and mutters, "I guess you're right. Not gonna forgive them, and I ain't gonna be nice, but I'll be...  _ civil _ around them for Disaster's sake." He downs his forgotten coffee in one gulp before slapping money onto the table and standing. "I gotta go," he tells Ryan while checking the time. "I have a job tonight and I gotta get prepared."

Ryan nods stands up as well, finishing his own coffee. "Need a hand tonight?"

Shirk pauses and turns his head to look at Ryan over his shoulder so quickly Ryan can her it crack loudly. "What?" he asks, eyes wide and confused. 

"You want a second pair of hands tonight? With you dating my daughter and all, I feel like we should get to know each other a little more."

"Uh, sure. Yeah, whatever," Shirk agrees, still staring at him. He then shakes his head and beckons Ryan towards the door. "You better not slow me down, old man."

" _ You _ better keep up with  _ me _ , whelp," Ryan jeers back, holding the door open for Shirk, who kindly flips him off.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Ace, Shirk, Arin  
Relationships: Shirk/Disaster/Ace/Vinny, Shirk/Ace, past Shirk/Arin  
Warnings: allusions to sexual abuse, allusions to domestic abuse, mild violence, Arin's a fucking freak, sorry, mild panic attacks, talking about feelings for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning, the next couple of installments are all going to be older fics, from earlier in the year that I edit for clarity/edit for continuity/rewrite/finish! There are probably around 6 stories that fall into this category, and some _will_ be longer than the usual for this particular collection. I just don't feel like they deserve their own stories, so they'll get shoved here! All warnings will be posted beforehand as per usual, and any ones that are rewritten WILL have the old version linked at the end so you can compare if you'd like!
> 
> Thanks for bearing with me, and lets get on with the show!

"Shirk? Is that really you," a sharp voice called from behind the duo. Ace went to look behind them but Shirk's hand tightening in their own stopped then, and their eyes drifted down to the hands in question. Shirk's larger, scarred hand was grasped in theirs like Ace was a life-line, knuckles nearly white with how hard the man was clutching them. Ace squeezed Shirk's hand back in what they hoped was a reassuring way, and risked a curious glance up at his face. Jaw so tight Ace was afraid he'd crack a tooth, and a nearly wild look in his eye told them all they needed to know. 

"It is, you ugly mug! Don't ignore me!" The voice called again, hurrying closer. The person in question danced past them and stood directly in the two's path, making them both stop. The person was tall, taller than Ace and just a couple of inches smaller than Shirk himself. They were extremely thin, with their cheekbones and elbows standing out sharply. Their hair was a powder blue, and cropped in a thick, flowing bob. They wore make-up the exact color of their hair. Their sharp, almost unnatural blue eyes seemed to cut right through Ace, and sent them squirming uncomfortably under the person's gaze. "Who's this?" The person asked, voice sharper, more menacing now. 

Shirk literally  _ growled _ , and replied, "Fuck off. It's none of your business." Turning to Ace, and softening his voice, he whispered, "Let's go." 

"Alright," Ace agreed, wanting to get away from this person asap. They pulled Shirk along as they moved passed the person, but Ace quickly stopped when a fist yanked them by the hair, snapping their head back. A warning. 

"Did I say you could go?" The person said, glaring at Ace now. "Who the fuck are you, and why are you with my boyfriend?"

Ace shot Shirk a helpless glance, and saw anger in the man's eyes. "Shirk, don't. I got this. Let me go and I'll think about telling you."

"Nuh-uh. You're gonna tell me now before I really lose my temper. Who are you and why are you holding hands with my boyfriend, you f-"

Whatever the person was going to say cut off in a choke as Shirk's hand slipped from Ace's and found its way around the other person's throat. "Arin," Shirk growled, tightening his grip slightly. "Fuck off. We broke up, remember? You dumped me and then tried to have me killed."

The other laughed, and just placed his hands on Shirk's chest. "You took that as a break up? Oh no. I meant my words when I said either I had you or no one did. You betrayed me, Shirk."

"I did no such thing. Leave Ace alone or I'll-"

"Or you'll what? Kill me?" Arin cut Shirk off with a grin, even as his face grew red from the pressure on his neck. "How can you do shit to me when you piss yourself if I do this." Arin then moved his hands from Shirk's chest to under his shirt, and Ace watched in horror as Shirk's body froze. His spine straightened, and his arms fell away from Arin stiffly, and while Ace couldn't see their boyfriend's face from where they stood, he could only imagine the look of horror on Shirk's face. 

Arin leaned in close to Shirk's ear and whispered something Ace couldn't hear, and his hands traveled downwards. It was when Shirk made a noise Ace hated to hear—a panicked whine, that Ace almost missed from how  _ quiet _ it was—and backpedaled so quickly that he almost fell in his haste, that snapped them out of whatever trance the blue-haired man had been in. They rushed forward, shoved Shirk behind them protectively, and pulled out a small switchblade hidden in their pocket. "Leave him alone!"

"Stay out of this, blue-bitch. This is between me and him," Arin hissed, eyes narrowing at Ace. 

"This became between me and you, Blue-bitch, when you hurt him. Go away." Ace could practically feel Shirk shaking behind them, and their protective instinct soared. Arin's hand twitched once in warning before the skinny man lunged at Ace, tearing at them with his nails—Filed into points! Who does that?—and kicking viciously. Ace half expected Shirk to step in and help but when they caught a glance at their boyfriend, their heart caught in their throat even during the fight. 

Shirk was standing there, staring at Arin, unmoving with his arms wrapped around his middle as he trembled. The look of pure horror was just as upsetting as the noise he was making, a loud, keening whine not unlike the one earlier, and he was shaking like a leaf in a storm. Ace's momentary distraction let Arin get the upper hand, and the man knocked Ace's knife out of his hand before bearing down once more. "Shirk!" Ace cried, fighting back against the wiry man with all their strength. The man held a lot more power in his gangly arms then Ace had suspected. They turned their head again, to call out Shirk's name, but froze when the weight shifted on his back and he heard the click of a gun. 

The change in Shirk was instantaneous. His face hardened, and he strode over in three steps. "Get off of them. Now," he ordered, breathing heavily through the tears still running down his face. Arin laughed, and it was Shirk's turn to lunge. He disappeared behind Ace so quickly they didn't know what was happening until the weight off their back was gone. As they turned around there was the unmistakable  **BANG BANG** of two gunshots, and Ace's heart dropped. They scrambled onto their feet and rushed over, only to see Shirk pushing himself off an unconscious Arin. Blood dripped from a graze on Shirk's temple and he held his hands against his side, but he was standing, and breathing—although still sounding on the verge of a panic attack Ace realized—and that was mattered at the second. 

"HOLY SHIT WHAT'S WITH HIM?" Ace exploded, looking down to see their knife sticking out of Arin's hands, which were stabbed into the concrete. They walked over, wrenched their knife from Arin, and then kicked the man once for good measure. "Man, screw him. Are you okay?" Ace rushed over to Shirk and pressed their hands onto Shirk's face, who leaned into the touch like a cat. The man didn't speak, but shook his head 'no', and pulled Ace into a rough kiss with an edge of hysteria. When they pulled apart, Shirk hissed and pressed his hands into his side, eyebrows screwed up in pain. 

"I'm a little… out of it? Right now? I…" Shirk swallowed, audibly, and went to run his bloody, shaking hands through his hair, but Ace's hands grabbed his and stopped him. "I… this isn't good. He shouldn't have–we shouldn't have–this is  _ bad. _ " His eyebrows screwed up in frustration as he kept flubbing and tripping over his words. "So y'know how Dee and Vin say I should like, talk about my feelin's an' shit?" He paused for nary a moment before continuing. "So, I'm–I'm gonna be  _ fucking honest _ here but I… I dunno if I can be alone tonight. This is… already dragging up a buncha shit I don't wanna think about and," he huffed out a pitiful laugh, hand raising to press into his temple, the one that was bleeding sluggishly. "But I understand if you wanna get checked out and patched up, he did a number on you and– _ Fuck _ ."

Ace couldn't help but pull him into a hug, heedless of the blood now being soaked into their shirt. "Shut up, you big oaf," they said, pulling out Shirk's ponytail and running their hand through his hair, something they found calmed him when he got wound up like this. "I'm not going to leave you to deal with this. I'm not gonna make you talk about it either. Let's just get back to your apartment, patch ourselves up,  _ not _ tell Dee, and watch a movie. Sound okay?"

"...Yeah," Shirk nodded, and Ace smiled, before leading him away from Arin's still passed-out body. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All that was edited from this was spelling and a couple of paragraphs that got completely scrapped and rewritten to better encompass their characterizations and how their relationships have progressed as we talk about them. Everything else is the same.
> 
> This was the first freak fam thing I wrote? Back before the whole group was a thing and I exclusively shipped Shirk/Ace (which, to be _granted_ didn't last _long_ because I ended up talking to y'all, lmao).


	5. Castle of Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "You can't expect me to believe nothing happened, not when you flinch every time something touches you." (Shirk gets kidnapped and breaks out. The others try and comfort him. Shirk, Vinny, Ace, and Disaster.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Shirk, Vinny, Ace, Disaster  
Relationships: Shirk/Disaster/Ace/Vinny  
Warnings: a whole lot, uh, graphic descriptions of violence, unintentional self-harm, abandonment issues, kidnapping, post-kidnapping, mentions and allusions to torture (non graphic), panic attacks, non-verbal character (temporary), self-doubt, someone has a _whole_ boatload of issues, someone nearly gets shanked on a couple of occasions.

The clouds rolled low over the tops of the buildings, hung heavy with bellies full of the promise of rain, threatening to break their hold at a moment's notice. They completely covered the sky in a thick blanket, blotting out the moon and stars which twinkled high above without a second thought about what occurred below their light. The only illumination that lit up the dingy streets were the flickering street lights, old and unkempt, which lined the black asphalt in mirrored, uniform lines. A dark, hulking shape shuffled itself through their pockets of light, hunched in on them and sending darting glances to every shadow like the world itself was readying to pounce on them. Their left leg dragged uselessly behind them with a quiet, and all too loud, scuffing noise. A long, jagged metal pipe was held in a white-knuckled grip in their left hand, a serrated knife hanging loosely from their right. Both had rivers of blood and ichor falling away in a rhythmic  _ drip, drip, drip _ as the person slowly made their way through the streets, leaving a bloody trail that mingled with the person's own blood.

Bright red, disheveled hair was lit up underneath a street light, calling focus to the gore and unsavory grime that caused the ruby strands to clump disgustingly together, staining their head and neck an ugly shade of red. A flash of lighting followed shortly by a sharp crack of thunder caused the figure to seize up, hands clenching impossibly tighter around the weapons held within. When no one jumped out from the darkness, no glint of a gun meeting their eye from within the creeping shadows, they let their shoulders slump and began their trek once again. Another flash of lighting and another sharp  _ CRACK _ thundering through the sky caused the person to jump and glance upwards in an unsteady squint, green eyes weary and unfocused. A fat drop of rain, bone-chilling and foreboding, fell between their eyes, causing them to flinch away from the freezing touch and pick up their slow shuffle to a slightly faster amble.

As the clouds finally broke under their pressure and the rain began to pelt down painful bullets of ice-cold water in earnest, soaking everything their chill-inducing hands grasped, including the lone figure in the street. A familiar building rose out from the darkness like a beacon of hope. The abandoned mall. A painful smile cracked across the person's face despite the way they flinched violently against every thunderous wave, splitting a previously unseen cut across their bottom lip open again and spilling fresh blood down their chin, rough with unshaven stubble. Their amble picked up speed once again, and they forced weight on their injured leg, sending sharp spikes of agony up their spine into their chest with every step. Each excruciating step brought them closer and closer to safety.

They finally, and quite literally, stumbled into the building, water cascading off of them in waves and mixing with the bloody footprints left behind after every step as they made their way to the single elevator in the middle of the main entrance area. They stepped into the elevator and hit the floor they wanted to go to. As soon as the doors slid shut, they collapsed heavily onto the railing, weapons clattering heavily to the carpeted floor with a series of dull  _ thud _ s. The mantra that was being chanted in their head like a song on repeat thudded painfully loud within their skull.  _ I am Shirk Raya, the Dragon of Los Santos. I will not betray my family. I will not give in. I am Shirk Raya, the Dragon- _

The doors opened with a cheerful chime and he stooped down to pick up the abandoned weapons before stepping off the elevator, watching dully as the doors slid closed once again. He then slowly turned, head and leg throbbing painfully with every beat of his heart, and shambled down the short hallway to the room he knew was his. He fished out his keys—the only thing left on his person after his captors destroyed everything else—from his jacket pocket, unlocking his door with a  _ cuh-chunk _ and taking a single step into the dark threshold. The door shut with a soft click behind him and he finally allowed himself to relax, beaten and battered body nearly giving out where he stood. 

Shirk was exhausted, wanted nothing more than to sleep, but he knew that it was highly unlikely he would get any amount of rest for a while, what little sleep he would manage to capture would almost surely be plagued with nightmares. Plus, he was getting nowhere near any of his furniture being covered in slick blood as he was. First thing: shower. Tend to his wounds. Eat or drink whatever he could stomach without throwing it back up. A flash of lightning alighting the room through the single window to his left caused the normally fearless man to startle so violently he nearly passed out, a vice-like grip crushing his lungs and causing his heart to pound painfully against his ribs. He quickly scurried like a frightened cat to the bathroom, closing the door tightly and locking it before allowing himself to breathe. He kept the lights off, didn't want to see himself in the mirror until he was at least somewhat presentable, and turned the shower on as hot as it could get. He had enough cold water to last a lifetime–

A quick shake of his head dislodged the memory, and he quickly shucked off his clothes and climbed into the shower, not for the first time glad it had a seat-like slab in it as his busted leg finally gave out on him and he fell heavily onto it. He let the blistering water pour over his skin, washing away the physical reminders of what had happened barely hours ago. He felt more than saw the blood wash down the drain, no doubt coloring the water a horrid red as it swirled around. He quickly cleaned himself, taking extra time and special care on his hair, making sure it was completely clean and snarl free before moving onto his injured body. He washed himself down the best he could, mindful of every fresh wound and abrasion, some still dribbling blood even as he cleaned them. He attempted to move his left leg to give some attention to it, but it spasming sharply at the smallest movement caused him to forgo cleaning the limb entirely.

He shut the water off and clambered out of the shower ungracefully, left leg refusing to bear anymore weight. He grabbed one of the towels off the rack- leaning most of his weight onto the bathroom counter- and patted himself dry, ignoring the white linen turning red in spots as he did so. Once suitably dried off, he wrapped the towel around his waist and turned the light on, ducking his head at the bright assault to his eyes. Once his eyes adjusted to the change in light, he opened them and glanced at himself in the mirror. The man staring back was hollow-cheeked, with sunken eyes and cuts and scrapes littering his face. The beginnings of a beard colored his chin and cheeks, below the dark hair his skin was pale and sickly. The man's eyes lacked any emotion in them, being closed off and mistrusting of everything. 

The only thing that told Shirk it was him and not some stranger were the all too familiar scars brandished across his face. This wasn't the man Shirk had left as three weeks ago, this wasn't who he remembered. He didn't have the beard, or the nearly feral look in his eyes for starters. Unfamiliarity stung as his brain and he tore his eyes away from his face, to take inventory on the rest of his body. Numerous new wounds—some already scarred, others fresh—littered what unmarred skin he once had. Some were sticky and hot with infection, and yet others were scabbed over uncomfortably. A plethora of different wounds in different states of healing; most intentional, torturous wounds meant to hurt, not kill, though a few were gained in his escape–

He once again shook his thoughts away, moving to crouch in front of the sink and rummage through the cabinets. Shirk pulled out his first aid supplies, including a needle and stitches, and began to patch himself up. He'd maybe ring up Moe, but probably not. Knowing his luck the man would be busy out of his mind with patients, human or animal. He found he had zoned out, deft fingers working on auto pilot as he sewed and bandaged himself up. His torso and arms were done, all that was left was his leg.

Which, unfortunately, had the head of a crossbow bolt stuck in his calf. Not one of the small ones, one meant for hunting large game, broad and triangular. He kneeled down so all his weight was on his right leg, moving his left to a position where he could reach the wound. Prodding gently, not without sharp pain radiating out from each touch, he located the foreign object. Holding his left hand overtop it from the outside, he grit his teeth and took a deep breath. Positioning his right hand, he dug his finger into the wound, biting his tongue to keep from making a noise. He breathed heavily through his nose, the stench of blood and antiseptic clogging up his senses. He fished around and his finger finally brushed over the hard edge of the arrowhead, and he quickly yanked it out, pressing in with his left hand to staunch the fresh blood flow from the wound. He couldn't help the pained grunt— _ too loud _ —from escaping his lips, and he stilled, holding his breath.

Shirk thought he heard movement from outside the bathroom, so he waited, daring not to breathe, listening for anything further. When no other sounds greeted his ears, he turned back to his leg, grabbing the stitches with a hand he refused to acknowledge was shaking. He quickly stitched the offending limb back up, wrapped a tight bandage around the rushed job, and stood up, still bearing most of his weight on his right leg. He washed his hands, ignoring the one injury he refused to touch-they re-carved  _ BEAST _ just below the brand.

He couldn't help the way his eyes drifted down to the age-old brand, phantom pain of the hot metal biting into his skin causing the muscle underneath to twitch and jolt as if it were being branded all over again. He swallowed, throat dry, and remembered step three of his plan. Get something to drink. Easy. The nausea suddenly rolling in his gut promised he'd be unable to eat anything, but he's gone this long without food, what's a few more hours? Shirk pointedly ignored his ribs poking out from under his skin, and turned to the door. He hesitated, glancing back at the mess he left; a pool of blood, used bandages and towels, other medical supplies strewn about… He'd clean up later, he decided. He really needed water. He hesitated again, before praising the Gods he kept a spare change of clothes in bathroom for times like this. He quickly threw on the sweatpants and t-shirt, not bothering to tie up his hair.

He swung open the door without second guessing again, turning out the bathroom light as he did so. Another grumble of thunder caused him to jump. Shit, he fucking forgot it was storming. What a damn coward. Jumping at a little thunder. He let out a quiet, humorless laugh, limping his way towards the kitchen. The knife and the broken pipe he had brought home with him sat on the wooden table, neatly placed. Strange, he didn't remember putting them there. He could've sworn he had dropped them somewhere by the door…

The hairs on the back of his neck rose, and that was his only warning before footsteps approached behind him. His hand reflexively reached out and wrapped around the handle of the knife, and he ducked into a crouch, springing away from the person behind him. They gasped. He whirled around and bared his teeth, pushing the pain away. Brandishing the knife like a sword, he narrowed his eyes, just seeing the outline of the person standing before him. Their hands were raised, hands empty. Shirk didn't trust them-

The light turned on and he violently flinched, backing up on instinct. His foot hit the counter, his bad leg, and sent a shock of pure agony up. He groaned, resisting the urge to grab his leg, and opened his eyes into a glare. As the people in front of him came into focus, he froze, knife clattering to the floor. Disaster was the one who came up behind him, in a nightgown, eyes flashing with worry and confusion. Ace stood behind her, slowly putting down the book they had grabbed. Vinny was over by the door, looking ready to bolt but trusting Shirk enough not to hurt any of them. All the fight in him left in a rush and he suddenly felt light-headed, headache back double-fold and leg angrily pulsing in pain with every heartbeat. He slowly lowered himself so he was sitting on the floor and hung his head, focused on drawing in breaths that didn't cause his chest to shudder. 

The rush of blood in his ears receded, and a voice right in front of him— _ too close, too close _ —replaced it. "-irk! Shirk, answer me!" His head snapped up and he attempted to scoot away, panic seizing his body again, but his back was to the counters so he had nowhere to go. He was  _ trapped.  _ His hand reached for the knife again against his own accord- "Woah, shhh, it's okay." Disaster was crouched in front of him, trying to calm him down, hands held out once again. He hand gripped around the blade of the knife, serrated edge slicing easily into his palm. "Please put down the knife," she told him in a calm, soothing tone. She was  _ too close _ . He hand reached out to touch his arm, his vision swam, and he curled away from her outstretched palm.

He heard Ace—or was it Vinny?—ask something in a scared voice, but all he could focus on was how  _ close _ Disaster was and how he wanted her to back up. "Nnn," he tried, mouth unable to form the words his brain was screaming.

"Shirk?" Disaster asked, attention back on him.

"Bhhh," he tried again, frustration mounting the fear. His eyebrows furrowed, and his hand clenched further around the knife. The bite of the blade didn't register in his mind. "Bhhk," he ground out, chest heaving—in anger? In fear? He wasn't sure—and heart somewhere in his stomach.

"I don't understand, sweety," Disaster told him, and he nearly brought his head back to connect with the cabinets behind him, but barely restrained himself. 

A sudden thought came to him, and his hand slowly uncurled around the knife. He brought his hands to his chest, shaking like a leaf. He refused to look at Disaster or Vinny, instead meeting Ace's eyes. 'Back up,' he signed at them. Again and again, repeating himself. 'Back up. Back up. Back up back up back up-'

It took a few tries, Shirk's movements jerky and sloppy, but Ace's eyes soon lit up in recognition. "He wants you to back up, I think?" When Shirk nodded, too desperately in his opinion, Disaster's mouth turned to a deep frown, but she moved away a couple of feet, finally giving Shirk room to  _ breath _ . 

"Shirk," Vinny piped up, moving to sit next to Disaster. Now that Shirk didn't look like he would shank one of them or hurt himself out of fear, they felt more confident to approach, in slow, deliberate movements like one would do around a frightened dog. That's what he was, huh? A fucking scared animal. "What happened?" Vinny's word stopped Shirk's train of thought, face shuttering over. 

He  _ wanted _ to tell them, he really did. But something held him back, something screaming about not trusting anyone, something scared and broken from weeks of torture and abuse. His hands moved of their own accord.

"'I'm fine, nothing happened,'" Ace translated, settling near the other two.

"Bullshit," both Vinny and Disaster said at the same time.

"You can't expect me to believe nothing happened, not when you flinch every time something touches you," Disaster told him. Her tone rose as she spoke, clearly upset, and Shirk had to fight back the instinct to curl away from her volume. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of proving her words.

He glared back at her. 'I'm  _ fine _ ,' he stressed, ignoring the blood dripping down his arm. ' _ Nothing _ happened. Got a little banged up, that's all.'

"Shirk," Ace said quietly, after translating. "Why are you lying to us?"

'I'm  _ not _ -'

"You are," Vinny told him. Shirk raised his hands to sign something back when they stood up a little too quickly. Shirk shifted before he realized, back in a crouch and fingers brushing the knife again. "You wouldn't look 10 seconds from slitting one of us if something  _ didn't _ happen."

Shirk curled his lip at that, averting his eyes. Damn Roach was too perceptive for their own good. He startled when he looked back and saw Vinny closer than they had been. Not within touching distance, but closer. Shirk's breath caught in his throat.

"What happened?"

Shirk wanted to use words, his voice, for this. He forced his mouth to work, frowning at its reluctance to do what he wanted. It had been over two weeks since he spoke. "I-its nnnothing you neeed to con-concernn yourselvess about," he started, slowly and haltingly. His words came out slurred, and for the first time he worried about brain damage. Maybe that's why his head hurt so much.

"Shirk, we just want to help you," Disaster piped up, having moved closer too. Ace wasn't far behind her, in the process of crab-walking over beside her. 

It was like a dam broke, and something that had been misplaced clicked in his brain, mouth suddenly spouting words he  _ didn't want to be spoken aloud _ . "What do you want me to say?" he nearly shouted, voice wavering and cracking from lack of use. "I fucked up, okay? I got caught, I was  _ stupid, I fucked up _ ." His breaths were coming out in gasps, but he couldn't stop the words anymore. "I was caught, and tortured for three fucking weeks, and I didn't think you were coming–" his voice cracked harshly, but he barreled on, "and to  _ top  _ the shit pie, it was the fucking Beasts who got me. I was in their grasp again and I was alone and I didn't  _ know what to do– _ " His voice broke completely, and his legs gave out below him. He gripped his hair, finally allowing his head to connect with the surface behind him with a  _ CRACK _ . "He's coming, he's coming, and we're all fucking screwed because he's on his way," he said, quieter. A shudder passed through him, and he whispered, "I thought you weren't coming for me."

"Shirk," Ace started, but Shirk cut them off with a frantic shake of his head. 

"You know how fucking  _ scary _ it is, to be tortured for three weeks, and you try, oh you try to hold on hope that help is coming. They have the best damn hacker in Los Santos minutes away, of fucking _ course _ they're on their way. But the days pass and the torture gets worse, you go fucking  _ insane _ trying not to say anything, and then you realize the ones you love aren't coming. If they were, they'd be there by now. You start to doubt they ever loved you at all," he told them, tears welling up in his eyes. God he was so fucking weak, crying like a bitch over this. "Do you know how that  _ feels _ ?"

A spur-of-the-moment thought made him lift his shirt up and off, showing the bandages hiding new and old wounds he would normally  _ never _ show anyone. He almost unwound the white linen, but just stopped short of doing so. Brain damage was likely. He gestured to the scars, peeking from beneath the bandages, across his chest in anger, staring at Disaster and Ace who didn't  _ know _ what the Beasts were capable of. "Do you know how it  _ feels _ to be ripped to pieces, day in and day out? To have  _ old wounds _ -" he gestured with his bloody hand to the re-carved words under the brand- "reopened with the intent of  _ breaking you _ ?" He ended with strained breaths, entire body shaking.

"Shit dude," Ace whispered, getting elbowed in the side by Disaster. No one knew what to say for a moment, the only sound being Shirk's ragged breathing, too fast to be healthy. 

Vinny moved first, breaking the tension that had fallen over them. They moved forward, slowly and deliberately, knowing that when Shirk got like this a hug was the best thing to do. They got within a couple of inches and paused. "Can I touch you?"

Shirk started to shake his head no, but changed his mind and nodded a quick  _ yes _ . His eyes were screwed up against the tears that still threatened to spill. When Vinny's arms wrapped around his body, he jumped, inhaling sharply. But he quickly melted into the hug, arms coming up to clutch at Vinny's back. "I thought-I thought-" he blabbered, barely suppressed sobs shaking his frame. "I-I thought y-you-" he hiccuped, pressing his face  into Vinny's chest. 

They simply ran their hand through Shirk's hair, shushing him whenever the babbling got to incomprehensible. Disaster and Ace soon joined them, wrapping their own arms around Shirk's frame—which was  _ much _ thinner than they remembered—and giving him soothing words and touches. They avoided any and all fresh wounds, sticking to his head, his neck, his arms.

His sobs quieted, exhaustion settling over his body, and he pulled away from them, eyes glassy. He crossed his arms across his bare chest, frowning at himself. In a fit of anger towards his actions and words over the past… however long, scooped the knife up off the floor and stood. The others gave him questioning, almost doubtful looks as he turned the blade in his hand. He stabbed it behind him into the counter top before he mumbled something and stomped away to the living room and collapsing face-down onto the couch. He felt someone gently grab his hand in their own and had to force himself to not snatch it back. They wrapped something around the cut down his palm, and he signed 'thank you' from the side of his head, unwilling to move his face from the pillow.

He heard Ace mumble something about how he "had mood swings so violent it'd must hurt," from behind him, and then heard what sounded like a smack followed Ace whining. 

Shirk realized dully that he never got the water he was originally after, and he fought with himself whether or not to get up and get it. One the one hand, laying down for the first time in weeks felt so  _ good _ , and the sleep was pulling at his body. On the other, he was unwilling to sleep as he knew what would happen if he did. Mind made up, he went to push himself up when a comforting weight settled onto his back. Hands started carding through his hair, and Shirk sighed in bliss, pressing his head back into the hands. He could… lay here for a little longer. At least, until whoever was on top of him moved. The hands didn't still and he found his thoughts slowing and his consciousness being pulled away from him. He would get up… he would. Just after... he took a small break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was simply edited for spelling and grammar errors.


	6. Outlaws of Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Shirk, Disaster, Vinny, Ace  
Relationships: Shirk/Disaster/Ace/Vinny  
AU: Bad Wings!Au  
Warnings: mentions of violence, past violence, past forced amputation, phantom pains, phantom limbs, shirk used to have wings, shirk has a meltdown (surprise surprise /sarc), his s/o's sing to calm him down, drinking to cope (brief), panic attacks

Stomach to the cool sheets, Shirk lays shirtless on the bed, arms half-bent and head resting upon them. Gentle hands are rubbing his back, kneading the knots in his shoulders away in small circles. His heart flutters uncomfortably in his chest, but he ignores it and tries to allow himself to relax. A second pair of hands is running through his hair, tugging every now and then when they hit a knot. Yet another pair are being held tightly in his own, fingers tangled together, their thumb rubbing absently at his scarred knuckles. 

The hands on his back move lower, loosening the tight muscles and letting some of the tension in his body melt away. He groans, pressing his face deeper into his arms, relishing in the pure relief that is steadily replacing the pain. He doesn't deserve this, but it's… nice. Disaster, Vinny, and Ace had called a mandatory 'Shirk Day' when they got up that morning, where they would coddle and take care of  _ him _ for a change rather than the other way around. None of them are stupid, they know that this time of year was hell on Shirk, know his stress has steadily peaked over the last couple of days. And what better way to combat stress than to show him how much they love and appreciate him?

The hands scratching at his scalp pause, and he almost lifts his head. "Huh," Ace muses, plucking something from Shirk's hair. "Were you around birds sometime today? There are a couple of feathers stuck in your hair." Shirk tenses, actually lifting his head to squint up at the white downy feather held carefully in Ace's fingers.

He forces a laugh and puts his head down again. A lie slips easily past his lips. "Got jumped by a bunch of pigeons earlier. No biggy," he tells them, closing his eyes and nearly  _ praying _ Ace would drop it. 

Of course, it seems like luck or God or  _ whatever _ is never on his side because Ace moves forward and begins to carefully comb through his hair, pulling out more feathers. Disaster slowly slides her hands from his own and joins them, plucking feather after feather from his ruby locks. "Damn, did they fucking mob you? There are a lot of feathers…" she murmurs as she works. 

The hands on his back have stilled as Vinny watches the other two. Shirk tilts his head to peer at them over his shoulder, seeing the calculating look in their eyes. They shift forward on their knees, touching something at the base of Shirk's neck, their face hidden from view. But then barely-there touches against the two twin scars trailing from his shoulder blades to the bottom of his back tells Shirk that  _ they know. Vinny knows. _ And his breath catches in his throat, his chest restricts painfully, he's all too aware of the way his breathing has picked up, of the nasty, all-consuming  _ fear _ wrapping its cold fingers around his head and throat. Because both Disaster and Ace have stopped moving as well, obviously looking at what Vinny realized, and of fucking course they figure it out, why wouldn't they-

His arms move involuntarily to cover his head, as if he's protecting it from  _ something _ , and he wants to get up, but he can't with Vinny sitting on his back and the hands still in his hair. His skin feels too tight, too restricting, and he barely resists the urge to dig his nails into his scalp, clenching his hands into tight, bone crushing fists, nails biting crescent-moon shaped marks into the flesh of his palms instead. 

And his breath has picked up more now, coming out in short, panicked gasps, chest heaving with the effort. Shirk flinches away from the hands that press gently against his back, trying to rub soothing circles into the skin. He hears Vinny take in a breath, about to say something-

"Dude, are you an Angel?" Ace asks then, cutting Vinny off obliviously, voice too loud and too  _ close _ , but the sheer stupidity of their statement makes Shirk bark out a rather hysteric laugh, stomach rolling.

Disaster hisses out a rather distressed " _ Ace! _ " before shushing them, but the damage has been done, because if they didn't know they surely did now.

(Because he wasn't an angel, far fucking from it. But he  _ had _ had wings once, large and powerful and  _ wonderful _ . Wings that let him soar for hours, far from the ground and the people and his worries. But then they were  _ taken _ from him in a bloody manner-)

Shirk was one of the rare people who were born with wings. Someone only rumors and whispers, folktales and mythology, scriptures and fantasy talked about. It was obvious if you looked too closely that his hair was mixed in with feathers, soft and light, but there all the same, that his body held a layer of down instead of hair, that his chest was just a little too broad, his shoulders just a little too wide-

If you looked hard enough it was  _ obvious _ . And  _ that _ was why he didn't allow people close to him, stayed a healthy distance away with walls larger than the Great Wall of China erected to protect him. To keep prying eyes and questions away. 

Shirk is suddenly aware of quiet whispering above him, him being the obvious topic by the hurried, hushed voices. But he's more aware that he's shaking hard enough to cause the bed to rattle on its legs, that his fingers are curled so tight he isn't sure he can uncurl them, that his jaw is clenched painfully tight and threatening a broken tooth or two. He shifts out from underneath Vinny, dislodging them and nearly sending them onto the floor, and stumbles to his feet, arms rising to curl protectively around his chest. 

The whispering stops, and he can feel their eyes burning into his back, but he ignores them, ignores their pleading calls for him to  _ come back _ , and mutters something about needing a drink before hightailing it from the room. He walks to the kitchen with fast, staggering steps and all but slams the cupboards open, grabbing a glass and a bottle of something, vodka he thinks, before going to pour himself some. But his hands are shaking too wildly and he keeps missing the glass, so he settles instead for taking a swig directly from the bottle. It burns harshly as it goes down, and he squints at the label with blurry eyes.  _ Devil Springs Vodka _ . Well, it might kill him, he thinks while taking another sip, but that's fine.

His heartbeat hasn't calmed down in the slightest, and his breath still tears from his throat in painful gasps, so he brings the bottle to his lips for another sip, only to jump so violently he drops the bottle, which shatters onto the ground with a loud crash, when a hand settles onto his wrist. That, it seems, was the breaking point, because he drops to his knees with a strangled noise, curling in on himself and arms wrapped tightly around himself, hovering over his back.

He's properly hyperventilating now, he realizes with a dim awareness, each breath harder and harder to drag in. Because he can feel them, can feel his wings curling from his back, heavy and alive and  _ a part of him _ , a mere ghost of what he once was. And then the pain starts up, the burning agony in his back causing his skin to jump and twitch, an all too real phantom pain from that day-

(because Fabian  _ wanted _ it to hurt, wanted him to feel every bit of pain, to feel his wings being ripped from his back oh so agonizingly, stopping whenever he got too close to passing out only to start up again when Shirk got his bearings back. With a dull, hooked blade that made it so much worse. 

Fabian had started with the feathers, ripping them out one by one. He then moved onto breaking each bone in both wings, until they were mangled and twisted, throbbing in pain with the beat of his heart. And then he tied Shirk down, selected a knife, and began to hack away at the flesh, bone, muscle, and sinew that attached the limbs to his back, to his body, cutting three inches into Shirk's back as he carved them off-)

Shirk slumps forward, curling further into himself. His forehead and arms are pressed into the glass-ridden floor, but he can't bring himself to care because all he can focus on is the strong, metallic smell of blood, all too  _ real _ and clogging his nose, making him choke and gag, tears springing to his eyes. Hands touch his back, meaning to be soothing but just causing the phantom pains to burn worse, and he begins to babble and beg between gasping breaths, high and panicked and full of unmasked  _ fear _ . 

The hands leave his back, but his own dig into his sides, nails cutting easily into his flesh and leaving bleeding marks as his fingers curl. His teeth are bared, tears dripping down his nose and onto the floor. He hadn't felt pain this real since just after it happened, months after his back had healed but his mind hadn't, and he still expected the weight of his wings tugging at his back 

(A sudden, aching longing for his sister settled in his chest, he hasn't talked to or seen her since it happened, can't bear facing her when she still has her wings and the pity she'd have towards him-)

Soft singing has started up from somewhere to his right, causing his grip to slacken and head to slowly turn, still pressed to the floor, searching out who was singing. 

" _ Oh, nowhere left to go, are we getting closer? Closer? No, all we know is 'no', the nights are getting colder, colder. _ " It's Disaster who started singing, trembling hands pressed tightly to her chest and face pale. It was a song Shirk had taught her, one night, on the guitar, and just this thought lets him allow his arms to drop fully away from his sides.

" _ Hey, tears all fall the same, we all feel the rain, we can change,"  _ And Vinny has joined in, their voice mixing well with Disaster's, slotting together in perfect harmony. 

" _ Everywhere we go, we're looking for the sun. Nowhere to grow old, we're always on the run." _ Ace is singing now, too, all three voices blending together and somehow making Shirk's heart settle, his breathing come easier, the pain fade away. 

" _ You say we'll rot in Hell, but I don't think we will. They branded us enough, Outlaws of Love. _ " Shirk sits back on his haunches, tears still dripping down his face as he listens with rapt attention. " _ Scars make us who we are, hearts and homes are broken, broken. Far, we could go so far, with our minds wide open, open. Hey- _ "

And his face crumples, tears flowing anew, as his heart breaks at everything they were doing to calm him down, realizing that touches weren't helping and thinking of something that he liked instead. Such intense love filled his chest, replacing the cold dread with burning heat, and the foreignness scares him slightly. He opens up his arms, suddenly needing to be  _ close _ to them, and they don't hesitate before rushing in to hug him tightly, soothing him and whispering sweet nothings.

" _ Everywhere we go _ ," he begins, voice cracking and wavering, but he continued despite his watery voice, " _ we're looking for the sun. Somewhere to grow old, we're always on the run. You say we'll rot in Hell, but I don't think we will. They've branded us enough, Outlaws of Love." _

And that's what they were, really. Outlaws of Love. Knowing how to calm him down in the most unconventional ways, knowing how to make him feel happy and  _ whole _ for the first time in his life, by squirming their way into his heart and slowly chipping away at his walls. Shirk finds he doesn't really mind opening up to them, even though the sting of embarrassment was ever present every time he breaks down in front of any of them, it lessens each time they reassure him that it's okay, it's normal to break down sometimes, it's normal to  _ feel _ . 

Shirk allows himself to take a deep breath, which still gets caught in his lungs, and releases it with a shudder, curling his arms tighter around his datemates. He closes his eyes and allows himself to live in the moment, enjoying the way they all feel pressed against him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, simply edited spelling and grammar!


End file.
